Of Violins and Waltzes
by Sunfire7845
Summary: Nobody can ever recall England playing the violin. "Playing a violin is too sad. Too many memories, too many." France, on the other hand, begs to differ. De-anon from kink meme. Oneshot.


**De-anon from the Hetalia kink meme. The prompt was: England having mastery over an instrument, preferably piano or violin.**

**Oh my, this was my first time filling a request. I always did wanted to write something for the mainstream Hetalia readers.**

**This has no beta, so apologies for any mistakes made.**

**Edit: Some mistakes fixed.**

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**Of Violins and Waltzes**

For as long as anyone could remember, that violin had always been on his mantelpiece, its reddish-brown wooden surface gleaming whenever a fire was lighted in the fireplace or the sunlight streamed in weakly through the nearby window. However, nobody could ever recall him playing it.

Nobody except for a handful of those closest to him. And even that number was limited to a painful few, his sarcastic and wet-as-a-blanket attitude driving away all potential friends.

Those close to him would remember though.

A certain bespectacled young man with blue eyes would remember the way _he_ held the violin, bow and fingers poised in preparation, his brilliant green eyes closed in concentration as he focused on the piece he was about to play.

Mozart, Sonata for violin in G major. Or something of the sorts. The young man couldn't be bothered to remember.

Another one would also remember the way _he_ rubbed the strings tenderly after he had finished playing a piece, the strings squeaking softly as he gently rubbed the cloth across the rosin-coated strings. Francis, sophisticated and posh as he was, would always silently admire the way _his_ fingers drew the bow across the strings, creating an almost perfect symphony of notes and melodies

And Francis also knew the reason why _he_ could barely bring himself to play the violin anymore, leaving that magnificent instrument of his on the mantelpiece where it stood collecting dust.

Oh yes, every once and then he had tried to persuade him to play a piece, but the only response he got was a melancholic stare and an equally melancholic reply, "I don't play the violin anymore. Never again."

And Francis knew. So did Alfred.

Francis would always remember the way he brought home his new colonies, a brilliant and genuine smile on _his_ face. The young one would be wide-eyed, looking around his master's house.

Then the child would always spot the violin on the mantelpiece.

Very soon, the child would've persuaded his master to play a piece, and in no time, Francis will hear the lilting sounds of a bow being drawn skilfully across the strings by the proud Briton. The child will squeal in admiration and soon, the listening Frenchman will hear the words, the words that had been repeated by many other children, those who had come before the current child.

"Will you teach me how to play?"

And Francis will hear him reply, could almost picture the soft smile on his face as he always, always answered. "Yes, of course."

It had been that America child first, then his precious Canada (a thousand curses onto the British man!), then after that, his memory failed him. He could vaguely remember a few more... Hong Kong, Seychelles, India... and after that, no more. No more. Not ever again had Francis seen him touch that violin, confining it instead to its usual place on the mantelpiece.

"Playing a violin is too sad." He had told him that when the Frenchman had teasingly asked him about it one day, trying to make small talk.

The conversation had abruptly ended after that.

Now as he climbed over the ledge of the window he had just picked open (the Briton always locked the front door and never answered his door bell! Good grief!), impossibly, he could hear the sound of a violin being played. It was a lamenting sound, one of grief, pain, loss and many other unspeakable emotions, full of feelings that could only be conveyed through a musical instrument.

And as Francis walked along the carpeted corridors to the living room, the intensity of the playing increased, as though the player was drowning in sorrow and anger, no longer caring if anyone could overhear him.

The Frenchman pushed the door open.

He stood in the middle of the room, a metal stand propped up in front of him. A book was clipped onto it, an ancient manuscript. Probably an original one at that. Austria would've killed to get his hands on it.

"Arthur?"

The violin stopped. He lowered his bow and slowly, turned around to face him. Francis couldn't help but feel a stab of pity as he saw his tear stained face, solid proof that he had indeed been drowning himself in sad memories, sorrow and loss again.

Simply, the Frenchman opened his arms wide. "Come here," he said softly, a silent offer of comfort to his dearest friend.

The Briton had gently placed his violin and bow on the table, then with a sob, thrown himself into Francis' arms.

As he cried, Francis whispered soothingly to him. "It's fine Arthur. There, it's all fine now. It's all in the past."

With a hiccup, Arthur glared up at him, the defiance in his tear-filled eyes still evident. "I hate it." he muttered. "Hate July. Hong Kong and Canada's on the first _blinking_ day of the month, America on the fourth." He shook his head. "Then yours on the fourteenth!"

"Oh _mon cherie_," Francis sighed and drew him closer. "It doesn't pays to think too much about it. What's past remains there in the past."

A pause. "I've always thought about it, you know." Arthur was whispering now, his voice trembling. "Throwing away that dusty old violin. Too many memories, too many. But each time I try...I, I just can't do it." A small smile was on Arthur's face as he drifted back to days long gone. "Austria, Roderich, gave it to me. That stuck-up, snobbish aristocrat. He said I was living too rough, forever keen on riding a horse into battle and shooting arrows, and he thought giving me the violin might soften me up, make me into a proper gentleman." Arthur chuckled. "Hard to say, but I think he might've succeeded."

Francis remained silent, simply allowing his fried to rant. _Let it all out, Arthur_, he silently thought to himself.

"I taught all of them how to play the violin." Arthur continued on, his eyes misty. "All of them. America was the first. Rude lad he was though. Refused to practise his bowing technique, and the number of strings and bows and violins he broke! He always ran circles around me, completely ignoring me whenever I corrected him." At this point, Arthur's voice broke. "I was right. Should've gotten rid of that violin right away. Whenever I play it, it brings up too many sad stuff for me."

Francis pushed Arthur away from him, a twinkle in his eye. "No," he said firmly. "You're wrong, Arthur. The violin isn't always sad. How about this, you play a piece for me now?"

Arthur's eye twitched. "Now?"

"_Oui_," Francis smiled. "A happy piece, perhaps? None of that wailing pieces for me, I'm afraid."

Reluctantly, Arthur picked up the violin and its bow from the table. His first few notes were hesitant, but Francis instantly recognised the melody, a smile on his face as his mind registered it.

The Blue Danube waltz.

Humming softly to himself, Francis leant next to Arthur's ear, whispering into it as Arthur played on. "Remember when we danced to this, hm?"

"Hmph."

"It was a full moon that night. And you wore a top hat."

Even as he played, Arthur could hit back with a sarcastic comment. "And you got soaked because the boyfriend of that nice lady you tried to hit on got jealous."

Francis was on the defensive immediately. "And you! You were complaining all night because you lost your scarf!"

A grin tugged on the edges of Arthur's mouth as he played louder and more confidently. "It was my favourite scarf!"

As the pair laughed, Francis took the moment to whisper into Arthur's ear. "So what were you saying about violins being sad if we can laugh while you play it?"

"Oh shut up." Arthur sniffed as he mockingly waved the bow at Francis and went back to playing his violin. Francis could instantly recognise the new melody Arthur was playing.

Fur Elise, a beautiful piece. A simple yet brilliant piece that spoke of childhood and all its joy.

Francis smiled.

Maybe there was hope yet for Arthur.

And maybe, just maybe, the violin might live to see the dawn of another new century.


End file.
